


Ode to the Undying, Hymn to the Dead

by LogosMinusPity



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Action/Adventure, Demigods, F/F, Gods, Some Romance, greek mythos inspired AU, katariven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogosMinusPity/pseuds/LogosMinusPity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half-mortal, half-god, Riven has prospered in the life of a soldier in Noxus, but is no more certain of her parentage than before. When sudden events begin to draw the hands of the gods more directly into the world of mortals, Riven must begin to carve her own fate and story, or be swept away by history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> Here marks my first attempt at a multichapter Kat/Riven fic (and indeed, a multichapter League of Legends fic in general). Inspired by Greek mythos and old tales and epics of gods and men and women, this will hopefully be an enjoyable ride. Please, as always, comments and critcisms are always appreciated!
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read!

Red.

Red was the color of blood, running fresh from fallen.

Red was the paint of the heavens and earth, of how men and women entered this life, and how they left it to be carried by the Chain Warden into the next one.

Red was the color of Riven’s gaze, staring out over battlefields and armies alike, over the grandeur and glory that was homeland of Noxus.

They called them thrice-blessed eyes.  Once for the color the Fates had inked them with; twice for equal martial prowess the gods had gifted her; and thrice...thrice for the unknown parentage for which she had to thank for everything.

Riven gritted her teeth, lips twisting despite herself.

Over two decades since she had first been left on the doorstep of a Noxian orphanage, swaddled in linens, and she was still no closer to knowing who either her mother or her father were...and to which deity her “thanks” should be directed toward for her demigod status.

It mattered little, though.  Not in the grander scheme of things.

Neither parent had ever revealed themselves to her, even when she long since grown past the lonely days in the orphanage and into one of the premier soldiers of the Glorious Empire’s war machine.

_Creating her legend._

That’s what her applauders, foot soldiers and generals alike, cheered to.  Another demigod in their midsts.  Another daughter of the heavens to lead them on a path of victory in the unending wars amongst the earthly kingdoms, to be the blood and flesh catalyst to ushering in more of Pantheon’s glories.

A story that would go down in the ballads when her life was all said and done.

Of course, none of them heralded about how she would presumably die in an equally fantastic and song-worthy manner.  Like so many other demigods before her.

Death in the name of the Empire was a thing of dreams, or so the official mantra of High Command would say. Blood for Noxus, and so forth.

The prospect of living longer and shedding the blood of enemies instead, though...well, Riven was not keen to follow in the footsteps of so many of her half-mortal predecessors.

She shifted, uncomfortably, in her tent.

“Death comes for us all…” she murmured to no one in particular.

If it hadn’t been for sheer dumb luck, for her just happening to be in the right time and place to intercept that assassination attempt on the commander nearly a year prior...well, she wouldn’t have even been noticed at all by High Command.  She’d still just be an overly strong thug in the front marching ranks of the Noxian army.

_Rather than the glorified bastard you’re becoming now._

Riven did smile at that thought.  Funny how a few drops of heavenly blood changed the way everyone looked at her.  The white hair and crimson eyes that she had cursed growing up were now a thing practically revered by those around her.  Like she was a good luck charm for the ability to kill.

There were worse things than the expectation to be a good soldier.

Whatever god or goddess had given her life from within Pantheon’s heavenly host had also bestowed her with the ability to kill, and to do it well.  What else was she to do except use such gifts?

After all, the stories never boded well for mortals who spurned the favors of the gods, and at least in Riven’s case, her skills were prized.

Even if she might never know whose lineage she had to thank for them.

She had grown used to the old, dogged question, even if the curiosity had never dissipated.  But so too had she grown used to the fact that she would likely live and die without answers.

Whoever her parents were, both mortal and immortal, they had forgotten about her.  All she could do was continue to carve out her own life.

The smallest of sighs left Riven.  It wasn’t like her to dwell so deeply in thought, particularly when on the cusp of a great battle, and she wondered what train of thought had led her to the mental quagmire that she so frequently tried to avoid.  Life was simpler when keeping to discussions of military tactics, barracks food, or what man or woman the soldier next to you had tried to impress while drunk a few nights back.

There was a polite cough and then a rustling at the entrance to her tent as a foot soldier entered, nodding briskly.

“Captain?”

The man saluted, crisp and attentive, waiting on her word.  It took a half-second longer than Riven would have liked to recall that yes, she was now “captain”.  A recent promotion and title, and one she was still not certain she was fully deserving of, but she had an entire company to her name now, and a battle that the general wanted won.  The siege on Kalamanda had been drawn out too long--today they would take the city, and Riven would be leading the vanguard with her newly minted Fury Company.

“The general is requesting your presence.  Fury Company is ready for orders.”

Riven nodded once, waving at the messenger with one hand.

“Tell him I’ll be there by the quarter bell.  I need to arm.”

He flashed another sharp salute, and took his leave from her tent.

Riven began to don her armor.

The plate armor was newly commissioned and polished, unique to her station as captain and as a half-god; something about High Command wanting to showcase the best they had to offer against their opponents.

Blood for Noxus.

She hardly minded the new gifts.  They would make her stand out on the battlefield, a beacon to her own soldiers as much as the enemy, but she didn’t fear mortals.  Warriors and assassins alike did not concern her.  She had stood against and killed both.

And her story was not yet written, her epic not yet told.  Kalamanda would not be where she found death, it couldn’t be.  Her gut told her as much.

Armor securely fastened, Riven paused, moving to the small writing table that had been placed in her tent--as if she had the time to spare for such dalliances.  Atop the strewn papers and maps was her small leather bag.  She emptied the contents: tiny votive figurines.  The Great God Pantheon, Master of War, and the patron god of Noxus, Marcus.

She set both down, touching her gauntleted fingers to their ivory-carved faces and whispering the soldier’s prayer beneath her breath.

Strength to conquer her enemies, courage to find victory, luck to evade death...and glory should death find her.

Strength she had plenty of, and she prayed it would continue to carry her forward.

Finally, Riven reached for greatsword.  It was massive, larger than any bladed weapon she had yet to see, be it in Noxus or on the killing fields.  It took two grown men to properly drag it to her when she had first been bequeathed with it, and she lifted it now with the same one-handed ease as then.

With her weapon at her side, she would do exactly as was expected of her.

She would take Kalamanda.

She would make the streets run red.

Red as a bloodied sunset, as the bloodmoon, red as her own cursed and blessed gaze.

Red with blood for Noxus.

Red with offerings toward the heavens, toward the all-powerful God of War.

Red.


	2. Song of Glories - Ch. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sing to me, Muses, by sweet Sona’s heavenly harp, of events long passed, when man and woman alike were strong enough to fight the Fates, when the gods still yet walked hidden among us. Sing to me of the Soldier’s Patron, of the Gatekeeper’s exile, the dirge of destiny so coated in blood and ichor, god and mortal touch alike. Sing to me, Muses, of the Ode of the Undying, Hymn to the Dead, and speak of the Song of Glories, the tale of Riven, bright-eyed Watcher of the Adamantine Doors...

Kalamanda was alight with the festivities of a sure-won Noxian victory.

Already the city was alive with songs and revelry, loud and jeering boasts of what the bards and soldiers alike were already heralding as a flawless endeavor.

For once, Riven had to agree.

Their efforts, equal parts bold and risky, had paid off, and the city had finally and readily fallen before the Noxian military prowess.

And it had been Riven who had led the vanguard.

It had been Riven and her newly minted Fury Company who had charged the gates, who had stormed first into the waiting militia behind the walls.

First and foremost among her men and women, Riven had led the push, carving a bloody swathe through the resistance until the streets ran red and the city elders bowed and submitted to the will of the Great Empire.

Parts of the city were burning still, a necessary casualty of war. The troops were allowed their bit of loot, particularly after such a long and drawn out siege, and Riven had made certain that her company received their fair share, even divvying up her own far larger captain’s allotment of loot into the company chest. After all, she remembered all too well the often thankless pay that foot soldiers were given.

Let them celebrate and have a bit more gold and wine than usual this night. They deserved it.

For the heart of the celebrations were only just beginning.

Skin freshly cleaned of the blood and grime of the day, armor replaced by bright linen tunics and oiled sandals, Riven was summoned to the central temple to Pantheon in Kalamanda, now repurposed and in control of the Noxian priesthood that had accompanied this branch of the army since the campaign had first started. Riven’s stomach growled for the lack of food in it, and though many of troops who filled the streets had long since started drinking, Riven held no such luxuries, particularly when her presence was required as one of the leading officers from the day’s siege.

The temple was filled with as many as it could fit, though a place had been reserved for Riven at the forefront closest to the dais of the altar, alongside the other captains and the general commander of the campaign.

Riven took her place, praying to any god that would listen for a quick service by the clerics. She was thankfully not disappointed.

Almost as soon as she had taken her stoic place, the raucous volume of talk and laughter quieted, the head priest taking position and lighting the great pit of braziers in front of the altar. The temple could not hope to be as grand as the palatial structure dedicated to the Lord of all Gods and War that Noxus proper had built in Pantheon’s honor, but it would do.

Three heifers were led in by the acolytes: one of purest white, one of deepest black, and a third of rich auburn. The chief priest scattered white barley across the pit and altar, and the then sacrifices were done quickly, efficiently. A prime cut of meat was taken from the leg of each cow, double-wrapped in fat, and then laid in offering on the altar over the heated braziers.

There was more to be done, though. From the krater of freshly mixed wine, a golden cup was drawn--the temple’s rhyton, engraved in complex designs and mimicking the horn of a ram in gleaming precious metal. The traditional libation was now to be cast.

The priest turned toward the officers, yet when Riven expected the general to stand forward for the ceremony, and so nearly stumbled and tripped when he pushed at her back to urge her forward in his place.

She had hated her unknown parentage once, had despised her shock of white hair as a child.  Now it had become the pride of a nation.  She had become the rallying point for their unstoppable conquest, for a conquest blessed by the deities themselves.

She loved her bloodline, whatever mystery god had granted it to her, no better for the recognition it now gave her.

“God-child,” whispered the priest, bowing his head to her as he handed over the filled cup.

Riven approached the altar, fighting the urge to fidget at the important and unexpected task.

Despite her unease, her hand was sure and steady as she poured the libation over the meat, red liquid splashing and mixing with the freshly bloodied cuts of beef. The flames beneath them hissed and flickered, but held firm nonetheless. A good omen.

The priest bowed to her, and it was with a quiet sigh of relief that Riven took her place alongside the leading commander again. He nodded at her as she stood on his right, the only sign of approval on his scarred and otherwise impassive visage.

Incense was burned, though even it could not cover the smell of freshly roasted meat, nor stop Riven from salivating at the prospect of food that was to come.

Thankfully, the priests did not dwell too long on the rituals. Honor to Marcus, their patron god of the empire; honor to Pantheon, lord of all the gods, and lord of the great spear that was the Noxian army; honor to the soldiers who lived to bring glory to the empire and the gods alike.

Blessings concluded, the high priest signaled to the commander, who rose toward the smoking offerings at the altar. In one hand he already held a thick skin of wine, and he hefted it upward as he addressed the men and women.

“Kalamanda is ours! A jewel on the crown of the empire, and a blow to those who would stand against us. Ours is the glory--tonight let us celebrate in our glory!”

A deafening cheer rose up--through the temple, to the masses outside. Jugs of wine were opened, and plates pulled forth for the soldiers to feast from. To fight was to never know what day they might die...but for tonight, they would celebrate living. Tonight, they would celebrate victory.

 

* * *

 

Diana’s moon had risen high in Nocturne’s sky, and the festivities were still in full force throughout the conquered city when Riven retired to her chambers for the night. They were fine rooms, far nicer than what she had been sleeping off of in tents for the better portion of the last half-year. She wondered idly who they had belonged to but two days earlier. An official? An elder? A militia captain? It no longer mattered, certainly. They were Riven’s for tonight, and even then would only remain hers until the next marching orders came through.

For that was her place, after all. On the battlefield, not at feasts or parades, and the quiet privacy of her room was a refreshing escape from the earlier bustle. It was, she supposed, what she had been born far. Her lips formed a twisted smirk at the grim thought.

Riven had only just changed into her nightwear when a cool breeze filtered in through the window, and the small hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood on end.

She spun on her heels heel, hand already reaching for her greatsword.  Yet there was nothing.  No one.  Her chambers were devoid of any but her own shadow. Still, she brushed her off hand over the leather pouch at waist, at the small marble figurines of Pantheon, Master of Gods and Lord of War, and steel-eyed Marcus, patron of the Great Empire, that lay within. They were warm beneath the leather.

A trick of her mind, most would say, but Riven did not so easily disregard such warnings of her blood.  Only half of her was human, after all. Slowly, oh so slowly, she returned to washing her face in the basin of water that had been provided for her chambers.

The soft, woolen towel was just drying the last beads of water from her face when a rich, feminine voice carried across the air.

“Few could wield a weapon of such size as yours...and with such ease.”

This time her hand was on her sword in a blur, ready for the attack that would surely come, and yet didn’t.

A woman leaned against the dark oak of her closed door.

To merely call her “a woman” would have been to call the the stars in the sky but twinkling fireflies.

Skin pale as alabaster, generous curves and an expanse of lean muscle, eyes that pierced like green fire and hair that moved like red flame...the woman in front of her possessed an unearthly beauty, as radiant and cutting as the edge of a finely honed dagger, and with the same unspoken promise of danger.

“So quick to violence,” she chided to Riven.

It was supposed to be a protest, an admonition; the words indicated as much.  And the way the woman spoke it, the way the words rolled off her tongue in a nearly sensual drawl and her eyes flashed an excited and brighter green...Riven’s vision blurred for a short-second, hot and cold shivers alternating across her skin and making her breath come in sudden, shorter gasps.

It wasn’t a natural thing, to be so affected by mere words.

Riven gritted her teeth, willing the strange heat in her blood away.  She daren’t release the grip on her sword.

This woman might appear Noxian, her tailored leathers trimmed to the exquisite perfection that only the top ranking officers of High Command possessed, but it only put Riven more on edge.  There were no apparent ranking medals on her, and not once in her near lifetime of serving the Great Empire had Riven once heard of anyone in command matching the crimson hair and distinctive eye scar that this woman bore.

“Easy, Champion.” The words did anything but for Riven. “I do not seek your death.  Not now.”

“Who are you really?  You are no Noxian.” Riven put a touch of thunder into her demand, calling on the same authority which she used to command troops.  It had no effect.

The woman remained unfazed, though her smirk grew.

“Inevitability.  Compulsion.  Violent necessity.  In their black hour prayers they call me Katarina, the Sinister Blade.”

For a second, a wash of fear rushed through Riven.  This was no cutthroat for hire, no would be assailant. This was the master of them all, the undying and immortal.  Riven willed her voice into a rough and confident retort.  She would be cowed no more by heaven than by earth.

“What reason does a god of assassins have to take to likes of a simple mortal like me?”

As soon as she spoke the question, her gut clenched. There was certainly at least one reason why the mistress of shadow killers would bring her to reckoning.

The goddess, Katarina, laughed, and the sound was hot and silken and cruel all at once.

“You do yourself disservice, half-mortal.  You are half-god, too, and even a human would be blind not to see the Fates swirling about you.  Is that not reason enough?  No?”

Riven tensed, but then relaxed as the deity reached out, taking Riven’s hand in her own, tracing the pads of her palm and fingers with a touch like velvet.  She started when a dagger was produced before she could so much as blink, but before she could withdraw her hand, before she could even think to pull forth her sword in defensive retaliation, the tip of the silvery weapon pricked her thumb.

The smallest stream of blood was drawn, dribbling onto the blade.  Riven finished pulling her hand back, acutely aware that it was only because the goddess had let her do so.  She was wary, and yet held in place.  Confused, she could only watch, suddenly transfixed, as Katarina brought the blade up, as her pink and wet tongue darted from between her ruby red lips, licking clean the blade in a slow, sensual, and tantalizing pattern, all the while never breaking eye contact.  

Riven shivered, goosebumps leaving a burning heat in their wake from the power in that verdant gaze.

The goddess smiled, eyes finally closing with pleasure, as she swallowed.  It was a long moment before she spoke.

“And perhaps, Champion, it is because I want a closer look...and taste.”

She took a step back from Riven, celestial dagger already buried back away in its sheath, nearly dancing on the balls of her feet as her voice came out in a smoky and drawn out lilt.

“May your blade strike true, child of war...for you sake. Change is on the winds of fate. Be ready, lest you be swept away into anonymity.”

“Wait! What do you--” Riven dared to take a step forward, but she was cut off.

“Until we meet again, Riven of Noxus, and I daresay we will meet again.”

Then the candlelight flickered with shadow and the goddess was gone with a a low gust of wind, leaving no trace of her strange and unexpected presence but for the oozing and shallow cut upon Riven’s skin.

 

 


	3. Song of Glories - Ch. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riven returns to Noxus, but only to more questions than answers, and with a goddess who seems increasingly interested in her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit of a monster--I was debating breaking into two parts, but it just didn't feel right. Not sure if future chapters will be equivalent length or shorter, particularly as I just go with what "feels" right. Regardless, I really do hope you enjoy reading this. Kudos, comments, and any feedback or questions are always appreciated!
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read!
> 
> ~Logos

Riven absentmindedly ran a finger over the pad of her thumb. The knife prick had healed over, with no trace left behind of what had occurred. It was becoming a thing far too habitual, her rubbing of her thumb, almost as if to convince herself in the weeks since her strange, celestial encounter that it was a hallucination, a sickness of the mind.

There had been no further visits from the Goddess of Assassins, no hint of either the immortal herself nor of her faithful among the living.

The sense of normalcy was unnerving in its own right, but Riven gritted her teeth and forced her hand to stillness. Just why Katarina had visited her, for what reasons…

She shook her head. Perhaps the priests were right when they spoke of the will of the gods being difficult to discern. There had been no further visits, no shooting stars or bright planets in the sky. There had been no sign, and Riven was uncertain if that should be reassurance, or put her ill at ease. She had never asked to be born from the loins of a god, to have the deities take interest in her...least of all one such as Katarina.

Her fingers twitched, reflexively reaching for her thumb again before she caught herself.

Riven tried as best as she could to put the disconcerting thoughts from her mind. After all, she had more pressing matters to consider. She leaned toward the window of the carriage, pushing aside the flimsy fabric to reveal that the once small spot on the distant horizon had grown into the tall walls that they were fast approaching.

She was coming home.

 

* * *

 

 No return, no matter how quiet and insignificant as hers had been, could merit skipping the invitation to a celebration in High Command, particularly when the reason for the festivity was cited as commemoration for the victory in Kalamanda a month earlier.

Riven’s lips twisted. Parties at High Command hardly reflected the state of the city itself. It would not be so grand and encompassing a night as the one spent in Kalamanda proper, and would be far less enjoyable. Officers, politicians, clergy, the wealthy benefactors of High Command...it would be a gathering of some of Noxus’ most powerful and influential. It was a political event, a thing of appearances and socializing, none of which particularly appealed to Riven, yet she was expected to suffer through it nonetheless.

She readjusted the red military cape that draped across one shoulder, trying not to sigh too heavily. If someone asked her one more time about what it was like to be a demigod, or how to appeal to the favor of the heavens, she might not be able to keep up with civilized appearances

A strong, heavy hand clasped on her shoulder, and Riven jerked around, an overly curt response already forming on her lips before she registered just who was addressing her.

“As much is you may want to, try not to shed any blood. High Command likes to at least give the appearance that this isn’t a battlefield.”

If Riven was the poster child demigod of Noxus, her fame just beginning to take form, Darius was the icon of the empire. A literal son of War, highest and mightiest of the gods, his name was known in every corner of the Empire, his bloodbathed axe feared by enemy and ally alike.

Currently, his weathered eyes were crinkled at the corners, the sign of his rare amusement.

“Darius,” she breathed in a sigh of scarcely concealed relief. Of anyone to have bothered her thus far, he was the furthest from a nuisance.

“Riven.” He clasped her hand in a strong military shake. “A job well done in Kalamanda. The command spoke highly of your efforts leading the vanguard.”

Riven return the firm handshake, uttering the ancient motto of the nation. “Blood for Noxus.”

“Ha!” Darius gave a low rumbling laugh of agreement. “And still much blood to collect. Though Noxus has prospered, our enemies are still yet to see the reason in submitting to us. There will always be more campaigns to come.”

“Mmm.” Riven nodded her head in assent. They weren’t friends precisely, but Riven liked to think there was somewhat similar about them, beyond simply having an immortal as a parent. Of course, Darius knew who his father was. And so, by default, did the rest of the Empire.

A son of Pantheon was no small thing to have in their ranks.

Still, Darius had never been arrogant or overbearing, had never used his position to wrong. If anything, Riven had always felt somewhat of a connection with him, as though he intuitively understood some of her life, and she of his.

“And how have you been faring, Darius? I hadn’t heard much from the primary Demacian front.”

He gave a wordless grunt. “Little changes. We win one battle, they take another back. We have yet to break into the heartlands of their kingdom, and High Command has recalled me for the time being. Perhaps a change in strategy, if the stars align for it. Gods willing.”

The gods. Right. Like an angry blackfly, circling in constant nuisance, Riven’s thoughts immediately slid back to that same, bemusing issue, yet to have any resolution in her three days back at the capital.

Yet, now in front of her was a comrade, a man who _knew_ just as well as her—if not better—the odd tidal patterns that was the will of gods and goddesses. But should she speak of a matter that a goddess made so private to her?

Her insides stewed with indecision. If the goddess ended up not visiting her again, it was pointless to bring up the matter. Then again, Darius was more experienced, more knowledgeable of the deities and their workings. If there were anyone she could trust to confide in on such a strange matter, then surely he was the one.

“Things begin to stir.”

For a moment, Riven’s jaw flapped uselessly. She had not been expecting Darius to speak, least of all to say that. The confession she had been about to utter was swallowed back as he repeated himself, speaking as though it were a recited mantra.

“Things stir beyond our sight, Riven.”

She chose her words slowly and carefully. “The Empire has done well in campaigns these past few years, even if we were rebuffed in Ionia.”

Darius frowned and looked at her, his weathered gaze almost more piercing than usual. When he spoke, his words were quiet iron, measured and severe.

“...beyond even the sphere of men. The priests speak not of ill omens, but no omens at all.”

Riven now mirrored Darius’s frown, confusion and the stirrings of unease clenching in her gut.

“But, do you mean--”

“We’re only half mortal, Riven. The other half belongs to the Heavens. Both may call in their debts.”

“Wha…”

“Brother!”

Riven gritted her teeth at Draven’s typical and booming interjection. Darius’s younger and fully mortal half-brother was well known for his grandstanding, particularly when there was an audience to be had. A top tier warrior in his own right, Riven felt almost a measure of pity that whatever accolades Draven might have in his own lifetime would always be overshadowed by those of his half-god brother. At least until Draven turned toward her and opened his mouth.

“Riven! I did not know you be back so soon to the capital! Draven is most pleased to see you.”

He puffed his chest out, oiled muscles glistening in the soft light of the torches, and stroked his ridiculous mustache. It was even longer than when Riven had last seen him, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes at his usual peacocking, instead managing a cordial nod back.

“You seem to being doing well, Draven.” Riven’s eyes flickered to each woman hanging off his respective arms, hardly surprised.

He grinned widely. “Draven is taxed by making sure there is a enough of him to go around, but it is a sacrifice I am willing to make.” He stopped to address his companions. “See, ladies, not only my brother, as I promised to introduce you to, but Noxus’ own second demigod, Riven!”

Their pretty faces, painted with makeups, lit up in excitement as the usual, old torrent of questions poured forth from their lips. What was it like being a demigod? Were they treated specially? What was it like for Darius as progeny of Pantheon? Was it strange for Riven not knowing who her celestial parent was?

Riven glanced back at Darius, his face now impassive as ever as he shrugged. There was no hint of anything regarding the cryptic words he had just spoken to her. Riven tried not to frown again as she bowed to the two brothers and the two women, begging leave from the conversation.

“I’m afraid there’s not much to it, and I should take my leave. Good to see you both; Darius; Draven.”

Then she backed out as the women, undeterred by her departure, continued to pepper the star general of Noxus with questions.

She wove through the throng of other guests, deftly avoiding conversation as best as she could, finally snagging a chalice of wine so as to occupy her mouth from would be conversationalists as much as her mind already was.

Thankfully the edges of the great hall were clear, and there was space enough for Riven to brood without causing offense to other guests or leaving the mandatory ball entirely.

Riven settled into one of the small alcoves of seats hewn into the vast marble wall itself. It was designed in mind for the privacy of lovers to watch the proceedings of the ball room, but Riven claimed it solely for herself, frowning further into the rim of her wine cup. She traced the movement of party-goers across the floor, thoughts spinning on end but no closer to conclusions. Strange of Darius, to say the least. He was a man known for his directness, his honesty to the point of being blunt. To speak in riddles and veiled hints was...uncharacteristic. Unexpected. _Strange_.

Yet he seemed no more different than usual as Riven watched him mingle with the other guests. Nothing that would indicate anything was amiss. It did nothing to quell the roiling concern that now gnawed at Riven’s stomach. Frowning further, she reached for the jug of wine that had been left for convenience in the alcove, muttering a half-hearted oath under her breath when it filled only half her chalice before running empty.

She needed more wine for this.

Whatever _this_ was. Or might be.

Her gut remained unsteady as she continued to stare out, both seeing and unseeing of the hustle of bodies before her; and for her, that was warning enough.

“Not enjoying yourself tonight? You face is dour enough to do the Fury of Vengeance proud.”

Riven jerked her head around, very nearly spilling what little wine was left in her cup.

Katarina leaned comfortably against the nearby column, her own gaze staring outward at the crowd of mortals before her. The fabric of her gown was dyed an unconventional black, trimmed with cloth of gold on the edges. A bracelet of gold wrapped around bicep in the shape of complex intertwining knots, and more gold bangles clinked at wrists. Her red hair was only partially held up in a mess of curls, the rest of it a crimson waterfall spilling down across her swanlike neck like blood across marble.

“I…”

“Did you not think I meant my word before when I said I would return?” She uncurled from her rest against the pillar with a feline grace, entering the small alcove proper.

Riven struggled for a response, even as the goddess’s lips curled upward in a telltale smirk, as though she could read the silent thoughts.

“You…” Riven stared openly at Katarina, at her how even at a gathering of the finest of Noxus her celestial form stood out like diamond amidst the dirt. Then she pursed her lips and looked out at said gathering, already preparing for the people who would surely be coming their way to ask questions.

Except there were none.

“I am one of the greater gods,” Katarina’s voice lilted over the air, almost musical. “No mortal may see me but those that I wish to. We remain private from prying eyes.”

Indeed, Riven noticed that none in the crowd glanced their way, be it from boredom or curiosity. It was not as though their gazes were deliberately averted either; simply taken up by other things, almost as though Riven’s small corner of the universe had become an anomaly in space, forgotten by the world. It was not, precisely, the most comforting of realizations.

Silence dominated between them, and Riven had the sudden and certain sensation that she was far more bothered by it than the goddess, and that Katarina knew as much.

“Wine?” She offered up the remains of what was in her chalice, meager though it was. Still, it seemed to be the proper course of action, and Katarina accepted the vessel from her with the smallest of inclinations from her bright head.

“I did not think an event such as this would least of all interest a goddess.”

Katarina shrugged, swirling the contents of the chalice. “A small amusement to see,” though her tone indicated little interest in the overall happenings of the mortal gathering. “Pantheon’s ilk do always make quite the sight, of course.”

Riven followed her gaze back out to the floor, easily finding Darius again.

“Did you wish to speak with him?” Riven pandered her words cautiously.

She received a derisive snort in response. “Hardly. There is little he can offer to me, and far more that I can take interest from of you.”

As if to punctuate the statement, Katarina reached out lazily with one hand, running her fingers through Riven’s hair, fingertips grazing her scalp and sending uncontrollable shudders rippling down her spine. Her vision blurred at the edges, nearly swaying until she gritted her teeth, willing away the spell-like haze that fought with her will and reason. She would not be mindless in this, goddess or no.

“What...just what interest do you take in me?” asked Riven. It was, perhaps, more of a challenging tone then she ought to have dared against a deity, but her patience had worn thin, and she had little appetite to play the games of the gods, to be toyed with. Not now.

One slender, bisected eyebrow raised back in response, and Riven had to grit her teeth and fight back the shiver of fearful thrill that suddenly ran through her. She swallowed, and tilted her chin up.

“Are you not acquainted with the my mortal practitioners?”

A fell chill shivered across Riven’s skin at the words of the goddess. Of course. Of course the Goddess of Assassins would have known when one of her own had been thwarted—had been _felled_ —and by a mere and unremarkable foot soldier at the time.

“Certainly some are not as exquisite in their art as they should be, but it is not a thing that goes unnoticed for a simple soldier to save her commanding officer from an experienced assassin...demigod or no.”

Riven felt her very mortal blood freeze within her veins, though she daren’t look away. Not now. One nail traced down her jaw, along her collar, and to her sternum, not so hard as to break skin, but not so light as to remain unthreatening.

“So you have come to collect your debts, then.” Her voice reached her own ears as if from terribly far away. Not fearful, no. Never fearful. Dissociated. Resigned.

Then to her surprise, the mistress of assassins tossed her head back and laughed, rich and cruel amusement flooding the air and Riven’s senses, sharp against her tongue like a river of freshly watered wine.

“Should I feel the need to collect all such ‘debts’, my worshippers would have no man or woman left to send to the Karthus, and his Collector of Souls would no doubt be chagrined over how much work it would give him. Besides, I have no desire to see your soul yet picked up by the lanterned collector of Lord Death.”

Riven shivered briefly, crossing her fingers in the old soldier’s ward against Thresh, the Chain Warden who took the souls of the dead from the sunlit fields of earth down to dark Karthus’ blasted and lifeless realm.

Still, if the lady of violent necessity did not want her blood, then what exactly were her aims?

“What do you want of me, then?” she grunted at last, ignoring the way Katarina’s smile grew wider, clearly pleased that Riven had asked the question she had been baiting for.

Katarina pulled her hand back and toyed with the rim of the goblet, running the tip of one long, pale finger over the fine pottery, eyes half-lidded as if hiding some secret, dark secret to herself. Then she spoke, and her words echoed with more authority and power than any set of orders handed down from a mortal general.

“Go to the Temple of Pantheon. Speak with his priests.”

Riven stared, waiting for more until Katarina turned away, busying herself with a frown as she somehow poured more wine from the previously empty jug.

“And do what?”

The goddess took a long drink of wine, and gave a small and satisfied nod to herself. Only then did she turn.

“Ask them what their lord god commands of you, if you dare.”

Riven couldn’t help but make a noise of frustration. Why did _everything_ have to be so damned cryptic?

“Why can’t you just tell...me…” She trailed off. Where the Mistress of Assassins had stood but a moment earlier was now nothing but thin air.

Riven grunted again, then grabbed the chalice of wine back from where it now rested by her foot. There wasn’t even any wine left in it for her, or in the jug either, but there was a smear of bright carmine lip paint imprinted on the edge of the chalice, the perfect impression of a lip. Riven stared at it for too long a moment. Then with a sound riddled in self-disgust and of patience long since run out, Riven passed off the used goblet to a wide-eyed servant, taking her early leave from the gathering and damning the consequences.

 

* * *

 

Riven stewed. For three days, her thoughts roiled beneath her visage, discontent and resistant. She desired to be no one’s pawn, least of all in a game she was not privy to.

Yet the stories of old were painfully clear about what happened to those who spurned the words of the gods, and what grim Fates awaited them. It was not an end Riven particularly wished to tempt. More than even before, she sorely wished the chance to speak to Darius, but he had been called out to inspect the Northern Division army, and would not return to the city for at least several more days.

Which left her with limited options in the meantime.

To follow through on the goddess’s instructions, or to ignore them entirely.

Her stubbornness dictated that she cross her arms all the more tightly and turn the other cheek—what, after all, had Katarina ever done for _her_ —but her common sense warned all the more with each passing evening of the consequences of mortal obstinacy in the face of reason.

So it was on the fourth day that Riven dressed herself with a sigh and set on the main road toward the temple district in the city, her coin pouch filled in preparation. At the very least, it could not hurt to give honor the highest of the gods.

The Grand Temple to Pantheon in Noxus was heralded as the finest in the world. Well, Demacia claimed one even greater in size and decadence, but having never laid eyes on the Demacian temple—and unlikely to ever do so—Riven could indeed believe there were none more worthy of the great lord of heaven than this.

Each entry column was so wide that even a grown man could hug one and not hope to have his arms reach even halfway around their marble girth. Intricate scenes of battle and war were hewn into the stony façade, scenes of Pantheon subduing the Heavens, cementing his great rule; scenes of mortals emulating his martial prowess, engaging in combat. The great iron doors that led to the interior of the temple were cast open, inviting all and any worshippers in. Not once in living memory had the temple doors been closed, for there was never a shortage, day or night, of those in Noxus who sought favor from the highest and mightiest of the heavenly host.

Stepping under the marble arch, the scents of smoke and incense easily wafted to Riven’s nose, and the low but steady buzz of voices filled the air: the prayers of visitors, the drone of sermons. Truly, the temple never slept.

She blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting to the glinting light inside. Though there were torches and candles lit all throughout the building, the main light came in through the oculus in the ceiling, sunlight reflected and amplified off the centerpiece of the room, the titanic likeness of Pantheon himself that made the Noxian temple so revered across the kingdoms.

The seated statue of the great god was a towering colossus, carved from the finest marble the Empire’s quarries had to offer, and covered with pure, plated gold. His masked helm was indifferent to the world of mortals, his eyes veiled. One sandaled foot was extended further than the other, the traditional stance of ruling power, and his mighty spear was clasped easily in one hand, pointing skyward, while his great shield rested against the far side of his throne, a throne assembled of the weapons of his fallen foes.

She was not given much time to inspect the carven likeness of the Artisan of War, though.

One of the priests currently on duty approached her, an acolyte at his side. He bowed to her once. “Welcome to the Temple of Pantheon, god-born. What brings you here today?

Riven bowed back, more deeply as custom dictated.

“I come to pay respects to the king of gods, the master of war.”

The priest nodded at her as she straightened, traditional bronze mask he wore impassive as ever, though Riven could sense his approval beneath it. “It is good that you remember to honor great Pantheon, who blesses our mighty Empire in victories for emulating his martial dominance. Come.”

The priest led her through the temple, past the great statue and toward a more private room off to the side of the arcade, one of many shrines attached to the body of the temple itself. Here there was notably less incense, and the only light came from the myriad of votive candles that had been lit in honor of Pantheon.

He signaled with one hand, and in the space of a second, the acolyte knelt before her, head down and now proffering a great stone bowl in both hands. It was a pink-veined alabaster, cut from a single quarry stone and finished so thin as to allow light to pass through it.

“What gifts dare you offer the lord of bloodshed and fury?” His sonorous voice spoke in the traditional request for petitioners.

If the true answer to the great god was that aligned with his nature, then Riven had presented him great tribute many times over. It was marked out in the path she had carved with iron and blood, in the greatsword she had left in her living quarters for the day, and in her red eyes and pale hair that the enemies of Noxus had already come to fear.

But the mortal servants and caretakers of Pantheon’s temple required somewhat else in tribute.

“I bring what humble offerings of gold that I may.” As she spoke, she emptied her “humble” share of gold coins into the stone bowl. Only a half score of years ago she would have never dreamed of even having such money to be able to donate to the temple. Yet here she was instead tossing aside the majority of her captain’s pay from Kalamanda to potentially play dice with the gods.

If the priest thought anything of her sizeable monetary donation, it did not show in the least bit. He instead handed her a thin wooden stick, urging her to light a candle of her own. Riven dipped one end of the stick into one of the many, already lit candles. The fire took to the wood readily, before jumping to the wick of the fresh candle she had chosen, small lick of flame now joining the countless others.

She bowed her head in silent prayer before turning fully to the priest, walking side by side with him as they left the room and journeyed into the deeper halls of temple. This time when he spoke, his masked voice was refreshingly straight forward.

“Now, then, god-born. What can we do for you today?”

“I wish to hear the words of lord of battle, to know what he wishes of me to do next.”

She did not miss the way the priest stutter stepped for a second, as if caught by surprise at the request. He was silent for a long moment, and only the sound of their continuing footsteps punctuated the silence.

“We shall consult with the head of the temple.”

Riven nodded as though she expected nothing less, though her curiosity was now more than piqued. They exited through a wooden door, and out into the bright sunshine of a small courtyard, quiet but for the hissing and spitting of a small bonfire in the central clearing, by which sat a single old man.

“High priest.” Both the priest who had led her here and the young acolyte bowed deeply. Riven followed suit a half second late.

“Welcome, welcome.” The high priest had a deep and raspy voice, strangely complimenting his grizzled gray hair and stubble of a beard. Unlike his other compatriots, he wore no bronze mask, making his milky and unseeing left eye—and the vicious, old scar that left him half-blind like that—readily apparent. “What have you brought me here today, Alexis?”

He reached out, grabbing one of Riven’s hands, his own dry and heavily calloused fingers running over the web of scars on her knuckles, the lines on her palms.

“A god-born for me today, eh? And a good soldier. Words and tales of your rising exploits may lie, but hands do not. Reminds me of before, when I used to serve great Pantheon out on the fields like you, before this ended that calling for me.” He released her hand, pointing with a thumb at his ruined eye, a wolfish grin splitting his face. Servant of war, indeed.

The priest—presumably Alexis—nodded toward him. “Most Revered, she comes asking for guidance from the heavenly lord.

At that, the old priest’s grin faded away to something heavier, sombre in pensive thought.

Riven bowed her head again. “Can you do this for me?” 

There was an unnervingly long pause.

“Child...I will not mince words with you. As of late, the Heavens have been...less than communicative,” he admitted. “But perhaps…”

He hummed, a low but pleasing note, before continuing.

“...perhaps the divine blood mixed alongside your mortal flesh may be more telling of answers. Come.”

He signalled to Riven with one gnarled hand, urging her next to him. She squatted down, flames from the fire pit crackling a scant foot from her. Now this close to the high priest, she could see that a myriad of trinkets were strewn about his bare and dirtied feet. Arrow heads, spear heads, shards from broken daggers and blades...all remnants of weapons, now rendered useless.

The priest gestured toward the strange collection. “Choose five.”

From his far side, he pulled out an old helmet. There was nothing special about it, but for its clear disuse. It was a simple, standard issue soldier’s helmet, heavily discolored. Riven wondered if it had once been the priest’s helm, in his lifetime before becoming clergy, or if it was from some other, nameless history. She supposed it hardly mattered, though. At the continued urging, she selected five pieces, varied and random, and then deposited them into the hollow of the helm.

Immediately, the priest began to shake the helm, the collection of weapon pieces ringing loudly, metal striking metal. Then, without warning, he cast all of the contents of the helmet directly into the fire. Branches crackled and snapped at the unexpected assault, sending tiny embers flying into the air with a gout of dark smoke. The priest grabbed for an ash covered bronze poker that lay beside the pit, and began probing at the random array of metal pieces lodged in the flames, some already beginning to glow from heat.

His one good eye was fierce, darting from arrowhead to spear to blade piece, reading some language in the fire that was unknown to Riven. Seconds stretched into long minutes, yet still there was no response, and Riven felt her brow begin to drip from being so close to the flame.

Finally, the high priest laid down poker. His mouth was a thin, white line, and the long wrinkles on face conveyed a kind of exhaustion far deeper than simple fatigue. Riven knew his words before his wearied voice even began to speak.

“Nothing. The reading shows nothing, even for a daughter of divine blood.” He shook his head heavily, answering before Riven could begin to ask the next question. “For over the past moon cycle, he has been silent, no word from his messengers, from the planets, nothing. And we know not what it yet means.”

Silence from the greatest of gods? The patron lord of battle? Her brow knitted downward in furrowed consternation. What had Katarina meant for her to grasp from this?

Any further thought on the matter was cut short when an acolyte interrupted their small conclave. The young priest in training had a soldier at his side, wearing the standard issue armor of a scout-messenger.

“Apologies, High Priest, but this man was insistent on delivering news to the captain.”

Riven bowed apologetically toward the half-blind priest, thanking him again for his time, fruitlessly troubling though the results were. She would indeed need to speak to Darius once he returned to the capital. In the meantime, though…

“Speak,” she ordered, issuing a quick salute back toward the messenger to put him at ease. “What word was so urgent as to disturb the peace of the temple?”

The man bowed to her quickly, handing over the scroll even as he said what was inked on it.

“Captain! Immediate orders just received from High Command. You’re needed in the east.”

 

* * *

 

The eastern borders of Noxus extended into vast swathes of undeveloped land larger than the whole of the western, city-speckled empire many times over, at least according to the maps they produced. In truth, the eastern reaches were part of the empire in name alone, though they were by right as much as Noxus’ as anyone else. They remained undeveloped for a reason.

The rich, fertile, green lands that formed the great kingdoms to the west and the south stopped here, grass and tree alike burning away, soil all too quickly replaced with dry sand that no crop or tree could take to. It was an unforgiving frontier, and Aridae was one of the last official settlements before the shifting sands of the desert covered all else.

This far east, the usual complaints or escalations were typical the result of nomadic raiders, hardly worth Riven’s summoning. The eastern reaches were simply too isolated and of too little value for a kingdom like Demacia, or even Shurima, to care enough to wage an offensive. Wild desert raiders might periodically strike a village or town, looking to pilfer what little food stores the settlements had to offer from the main Noxian heartlands. That being said, Riven found it peculiar that Command has seen fit to send a demigod to the nearly forgotten edge of the Empire.

There were limited militia and outposts this distant from the capital, and nearly half of the meager standing that was supposed to watch over the village of Aridae was gone by the time Riven and her deployed squad arrived at the cluster of buildings sitting on the edge of civilization.

Some had clearly deserted, but those that remained were adamant the rest had been taken by the “beasts of the sands”.

Just what these beasts were, though, remained questionable at best.

An entire morning of patrolling the village and the skirts of the desert had proven nothing. No sign of anything but for the charred building remains from more recent, bold nomad raids. No tracks, no trails, no traces of animals beyond their own horses.

So it was with some measure of annoyance that Riven led her men and women back toward the square, were the local captain waited by the barracks, hands clenching and unclenching nervously as he waited for news.

“I don’t see anything,” stated Riven flatly. If the citizens here had panicked over what was actually nothing, protocol be damned, High Command was going to hear a thing or two from her. She had only even been sent out here because the captain had been so insistent that more than just regular soldiers would be needed.

The captain seemed to read something of Riven’s skepticism, and his face became desperate. “You have to believe me! They’ve been preying on us for months now, attacking more and more frequently. The entire village is doomed if you can’t help us! Please!”

Riven grimaced, fighting the urge to rub her temples. “I can’t help you fight against an enemy I can’t even see any evidence of. We were out all morning, and no sign of anything out there. These could be guerilla nomadic attacks for all I know, or—”

“Xer’sai.”

Riven stopped, turning to face the heavily swathed merchant trader who approached from the crowd of anxious onlookers. His voice was sharply accented from whatever strange dialect of Common he spoke.

“Zer...sai?”

Riven’s tongue twisted around the unfamiliar word. The residents of these far desert reaches spoke in in odd accents and dialects, descended from a culture and people completely different than Noxus and the other western kingdoms. Their religion wasn’t even quite the same.

The man nodded emphatically, though, gesturing out toward the endless sands, pale fear evident on his face. His lips moved silently for a moment, trying to search for the proper words to explain.

“Monsters. Rumbles from the earth. Shifting sands. They come from before man, and again after us.”

That gave reason enough to pause and frown. Her lieutenant continued before her, though.

“What do you mean?”

“They shouldn’t be here, not now. They shouldn’t be here till the end of ages.” He shifted in clear agitation. “Deep in the sand. Always hunting, always hungry. They eat everything. Horse, men, women, children…”

He shuddered again.

“Peace,” urged her lieutenant, hefting her own weapon. “High Command sent us to take care of this problem. Raiders or monsters, we’ll show them Noxian steel and blood.”

The trader seemed to accept that, though the fear remained on him.

Riven nodded, giving him silent leave to go. He scurried away like a frightened rat.

“Well, captain?”

A low hum rumbled through her throat in response. Talk of monsters, things not meant to be on the earth. She hadn’t missed the somewhat nervous glances between some of her soldiers, the half-crossed fingers to ward against evil and death.

When she spoke, she chose her words carefully.

“We’re here to exterminate whatever the problem is. Kill whatever things these are, then head back to the capital. Plain and simple. And the faster we get it done, the sooner we can all rest in our beds again.”

Ones not filled with the sand that seemed to creep into every last nook and cranny, no matter how much cleaning was done. Ugh.

A cheer of assent went up at her words, and at her further urging, her squad quickly fell back into formation. Riven signaled toward the rolling dunes.

“Let’s get going.”

At the advice of several merchants, they set out into the sands, toward an oasis only a scant mile or two out from the edges of the settlement, a well traveled route used by traders and travelers alike, and one that had supposedly been on the receiving end of the more recent attacks.

It was hardly a long trek; Riven had been forced to march far longer routes during her time as a nameless soldier in the masses, back before her demigod status had been realized, before her name had meant anything to anyone, when she was still a worthless street orphan. But she understood now the words from old veterans who had served tours on the eastern front, faraway looks and the shaking of heads as they spoke of the desert as the cruelest of mistresses.

The sun beat down overhead mercilessly, readily absorbed by the bright sand until the bottoms of her booted feet ached and burned from the radiating heat. She wiped her dripping face to keep the worst of the sweat from stinging into her eyes, and took large, liberal swigs from the standard issue water pouch at her belt. By the time they reached the small, palm-decorated oasis, she was glad for the rest and shade.

The pool of spring water was refreshingly cool, and both the soldiers and horses alike took ample time in drinking from it. It also gave her time to think, to assess what they should do next, how much time they should spend in the village, particularly if no results were forthcoming in the near future. She needed to get back to the capital soon one way or another, to figure out just what was going on. What needed to be done.

“Captain!” One of their scouts called out, making a gesture that somewhat was amiss.

Riven didn’t bother with dalliances, considering what they were there for. Everyone had heard the scout call out, and Riven held her hand up, urging for absolute silence. The soldiers all fell quiet immediately, hands now fingering weapons and shields alike.

 _There_.

A low, rumbling whine, reverberating from the ground...from _within_ the ground. And growing louder. Closer. These were no raiders.

“Ready!” yelled Riven

A high pitched shriek cracked through the air as a creature, a monster, erupted out of the sand. Purple and red, all teeth and talon and dripping saliva, it leapt from the earth, launching itself toward the horses.

As her squad already began launching the frantic counterattack, more sand shot up, more and more monsters emerging from the desert, hissing and vicious.

“Attack!”

They launched, swords smashed against the segmented and plate-like bodies of the monsters, struggling at first before finding weak points, drawing forth blue blood from the creatures as they cleaved and chopped relentlessly.

The yells of men, the cries of the horses, and the ghastly shrieks of of the monsters quickly filled the air in an unholy cacophony of sound. Through it all, Riven keep issuing out the attack commands. These were not men, but they would still die nonetheless.

And they did.

By the time the last sword was driven through one of the wriggling and snarling worm-like creatures, Riven’s lungs were burning from the exertion.

They’d lost a few horses, and there were definitely injuries, but her squad seemed to be intact for the most part.

“Well,” started the lieutenant. “That was certainly…”

She trailed off as the low rumbling began again, this time deeper and more powerful that before. The earth shook beneath their feet, and the sky seemed to darken, new light forming suddenly collecting and coalescing in front of them.

The very air twisted and warped, and Riven was suddenly overcome with cold, shaking nausea just looking at the sparkling array of purple colors. Sweat burst back into life from her temples, and she re-gripped her sword tighter than before, trying to anchor herself.

The light—the gateway—abruptly came together, a doorway to something, somewhere dark and terrible, where something large and horrible began to move.

Monsters began to pour out of it, same as those they had already fought, the Xer’Sai, but more than before, and larger the dog-sized counterparts they had already slain.

Still, they were dwarfed by the true beast that now tried to emerge into the light of day.

It pushed and heaved, as if trying to follow its smaller brethren through the portal, but stuck either by its tremendous bulk, or by somewhat else. The heavy noise of chains clanging together echoed out. Still, it could reach half of its gargantuan mass through, enough to swipe at Riven’s men and women...and in a flash, their shields were cleaved, and a half score were already dead.

Large as a dwelling, it screeched its rage, and Riven felt the blood drain from her face at the unholy sound that reverberated through her bones.

She raised her sword, forcing down the bile that burned in the back of her throat, and prepared to face her looming death.

 

* * *

 

Riven awoke from the darkness, her mouth tasting of ash and her body aching with pain. She groaned, or tried to. It came out as a pathetic grunt as she managed to roll from her stomach onto her side. Her gloves creaked and cracked from the dried mixture of sand and blood that had glued them in place. Still, she managed to grab her meager water satch from her belt.

Only half of the water ended up in her mouth, with the rest dribbling over her face and mercifully washing off the grime that covered it.

Dusk was already falling. The yellow skies were rapidly turning purple with the onset of Nocturne, the unbearable heat already dissipated before a surprising chill. Gritting her teeth, Riven forced herself to look around. She didn’t bother to call out, for she already knew it was too much to hope.

Of her soldiers, there were not even corpses left for her to place coins in their mouths. Broken shields, ruined swords, the rancid and blue-blooded bodies of the smaller monsters they had killed, but no sign of the unnatural gateway that had formed and the terror within, and no sign of survivors.

She felt her gorge rise at the single, severed hand left behind atop the shifting sands. Not a soul had been left spared out of her squad, not even a horse, but for Riven.

She was alive.

She was still _alive_.

Her fingers ran over her blood matted hair and the painful and raised bump across her skull. She couldn’t remember what had happened, how it had ended. Perhaps a small mercy from the gods.

She had to get out of here, get back to the outpost, get back to High Command even. Whatever was happening here, it was beyond her. The words of the high priest, the strange monsters...none of it meant well for the Empire. High Command needed to know.

Riven glanced around again, hissing when her eyes found what she was searching for.

Her new sword—forged of fine Noxian steel, a terror on the battlefield—was shattered. Practically useless now unless she wish to bludgeon someone to death with it. She used it as a crude staff to haul her aching body upright.

At least there was no sign of the Xer’Sai, and for that she said a brief prayer of thanks under her breath as she moved back toward the oasis proper, first intent on drinking and using more water before daring her nighttime walk back to the settlement.

She had just dunked her head into the spring waters—clearing the blood from her hair—a second time when the voice made her jump.

“I am glad to see you are still alive, and in one piece.”

Riven jerked around, and found herself face to face yet again with the Sinister Blade. For once there was no hint of a knowing smile on her twilight-shadowed face, only the grim, sharp line of her brow, cut by a single, dark scar.

Riven gaped for a long moment, and then quickly bowed her head, suddenly and acutely aware of her filth-covered form now that she was in the presence of a goddess. “Lady.”

There were light footsteps across the sand as Katarina moved from the palm tree she had been leaning against. A cool hand cupped the side of Riven’s head, finger pads running lightly over the throbbing lump near the back of her skull.

“...but not entirely unscathed, I see.”

She pulled her hand back, and Riven felt some of the pain abruptly lessen. She dared to stand, trying to read something, _anything_ , out of the goddess’s hidden gaze.

“My Lady Katarina, please, what is going on? I did as you asked, I went to the temple in Noxus, and yet from Pantheon there was no response, no omen. Nothing. And now…” She gestured out toward the sands. “Has Noxus so fallen out of favor with the heavenly father?”

Katarina’s acidic gaze turned away, her voice telling of little. “All are in favor, and none are in favor.”

Cryptic words _again_. Yet Riven was having none of it. Goddess or no, she had been dragged out to the eastern reaches, had lost an entire squad of good, loyal and capable men and women, had nearly died herself. She was not going to play games with the gods, not without answers.

“And what does that mean?” Perhaps it was the near death experience, perhaps it was the effect of the desert, perhaps it was sheer foolhardiness, but Riven let the heat of anger bleed into her voice, malcontent. “What does that even mean? Aren’t you a god? A daughter of heaven? What is going on? What does this all mean?”

Green eyes flashed sharply at her tone, but the words were not the rebuke that Riven expected for her insolence.

“I _don’t_ know. There are none that do.”

Riven paused for a moment in disbelief before continuing.

“What do you mean there are none that do? You aren’t the lord of Mt. Targon but you’re still one of the greater gods! How can you not—”

Katarina’s voice struck out like whip.

“Because the heavenly father remains absent, and none among us know to where he has gone.”

Silence stretched between them, ringing louder than any alarm cry or warning bell in Riven’s ears, the full weight of their meaning crashing down upon Riven as a ship dashed to pieces against the unrelenting fury of an ocean storm.


	4. Song of Glories - Ch. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confronted by Katarina, Riven is offered a choice. Everything comes for a price, and now it is time for Riven’s own story to truly begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who have been reading so far, thank you for the support in both kudos and comments. It's tremendously appreciated and really helps to keep me going and motivated! Thank you for the continued support and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> ~Logos

Katarina was quiet, the cruel amusement on her heavenly features that Riven had already grown used to had disappeared entirely, replaced with a frighteningly weighted severity.

Her declaration echoed in Riven’s ears, pounding in time with her rising heart rate.

When no words were readily forthcoming from her paralyzed throat, Katarina continued, red tongue darting out to wet her lips.

“Though none are willing to admit it, chaos grows in the celestial thrones atop Mount Targon by the day. Whispers and designs...machinations to seize what power has been voided in the absence of Pantheon, and silent mistrust for whoever _must_ be behind this. None have yet stepped forward, but already divine hands are moving amongst the mortals, setting into play attempts to presumably locate Pantheon, or to ensure he does not return.”

“Wait.” Her voice returned, Riven held up a hand to indicate her confusion. For once, Katarina waited patiently, eyes intent on whatever Riven had to say. “You mean to say another one of the gods is behind his...his disappearance?”

There was a pause.

“Are you so surprised? Even when we overthrew the Titans before us, Pantheon seized the reign over all gods only by force and sheer tenacity. There have always been many who have thought themselves better than he as king over us. It would not be the first time he has been brought near to his knees either. Your own stories chronicle it: when Fizz of the Oceans chained down the Lord of Heaven with twisting weeds from the deep abyss, when The Deceiver lured him to a sleep of ages with cunning lies and twisted visions. You know these stories, surely.”

Riven nodded, somewhat reluctantly. “So then what use am I? This is an issue between the gods then, no?”

Katarina’s lips twisted, and she turned out toward the night-darkened desert again. “As I said, none have yet come forward. No claims toward the highest of thrones in heaven, no overt moves toward the seat of power. It is...odd. Unusual.”

“And you want the upper hand?”

Riven watched the goddess carefully.

“I will not be left unknowing, in shadows. Not on a matter with so much potentially at stake. I have no desire to sit on the ruling seat of Mount Targon, but nor do I desire to lose what position I still have. And others are already moving. Taking mortal and demigod vassals of their own. The game has already commenced.”

‘Game’ hardly seemed an appropriate term if the fate of the heavens was involved, but Riven let it pass. It wasn’t her place to criticize a deity. However...

“So you want me to...to be your vassal.”

The goddess of assassins—far from Riven’s patron deity—stepped in close, until scant inches separated them.

“My Chosen. Yes.”

She shivered as the words left Katarina’s lips. She felt caught, as if hanging on the edge of a sudden and unexpected precipice.

“Your mortal directive.”

Katarina nodded.

The night wind of the desert blew softly through the Riven’s hair, and she could nearly hear whispers on it, as if the very Fates themselves swirled in the grains of sand.

“My ‘hero’. Carving her name into the words of mortals for generations yet to come. Your destiny written in your deeds.”

Riven went still, cold recognition shuddering down her spine. “...even if I die performing such deeds?”

“Not all heros die.”

“But most do,” countered Riven instinctively. It was her turn now to wet her lips, to chance what little luck the ailing heavens might afford her. She tilted her chin upward and stared back at Katarina. “You’re asking me to potentially give my life, and I’ve no desire to meet the Chain Warden yet. So what’s in it for me?”

“Besides the everlasting glory in the annals of history that mortals so aspire to?” Katarina’s voice dropped into a singsong drawl, heavy with sarcasm, as if knowing what Riven’s response would be.

Riven gritted her teeth, voice rasping out. “Equal exchange. If I help you get your answers, what answers am I granted back?”

It was risky, making demands of so fickle a goddess, and yet Katarina smiled widely, seemingly pleased with her bold request.

Fortune supposedly favored the bold.

“I know what you desire above all else, Riven of Noxus. What knowledge you seek. What identity you wish to have. Your brethren may have raised you up for your half mortal blood, but it is not enough for you. You wish to _know_. What divine blood gave you life on Zyra’s rich earth? Am I not wrong?”

Her sharp eyes were nearly hypnotic, whorls of every shade of green blending together into something other, threatening to swallow her in.

Riven nodded slowly, mouth dry from the endless desert sands and somewhat else.

The goddess of compulsion smirked before her lips parted again.

“Go to the Starchild, the farseeing oracle of the heavens, and ask for her guidance on where to search out dread Pantheon. Do this, and I will give you the answer that none have granted you in your life thus far. Do we have an accord?”

Soraka, the star given physical form on earth, was the sacred oracle, privy to the knowledge of the stars that not even the gods themselves could readily discern. She had also taken residence on the island of Ionia, across the straits of the Guardian Seas, where Noxians were a far cry from being welcome.

Still, Riven only paused for a moment.

“We have an accord.”

 

* * *

 

Riven ran her fingers through her unruly tangle of hair, willing the pale mess into a semblance of submission.

Today marked nearly a week in travels across the countryside, making her way from the empty eastern reaches steadily south and and south west. Toward the sea. Toward her next destination.

She shook her head, trying not to dwell.

The horse she’d taken from the nighttime and unsuspecting stables had been a sturdy beast, particularly considering how hard she’d ridden it through the first few villages, at first trying to cover as much distance as possible. Only at the last market she’d passed through had she finally given the wearied creature its fair break, trading the mare for a hardy mule to hopefully get her and what limited articles she possessed to the coastline.

The hostel she had stopped at in this small town was better than the last, and she even had an entire room to herself. The plain greatsword she had taken from the meager armory in Aridae was resting easily by the cot, bits of armor in a small and tidy pile next to it.

The day’s travel had been long, and having washed up, Riven was eager for her dinner to arrive and to be off to sleep. She would need to rise and leave with the dawn tomorrow; there was no time to be wasted. As if the will of the universe were clairvoyant to her thoughts, the was a sharp rapping on the wooden door, and then a young servant girl entered, arms full with food and cutlery. She set everything down on the small table in the room.

“Here’s what the kitchen had for today. I’ll be bringing you a bit of wine shortly. If you need anything else...”

Riven shook her head. The pile of hot food on the large plate before her was already more generous than prior hostels had been. She fished out a copper coin from her waist pouch, tossing it to the girl.

“This should be good, thank you.”

The metal was stowed away by the servant with a practiced ease. “I’ll be back with your wine in a bit then.”

Then she was darting out of the room and on her way, leaving Riven to her dinner.

Food now steaming and waiting in front of her, ready to be consumed, Riven instead found her appetite had abandoned her. She sighed, poking at the spiced meat with the bit of flatbread she had already torn off, thoughts insistently tugging elsewhere.

She sighed heavily, swirls in the sauce that overlaid the bits of shaved meat providing no more answers to her eye than the passing of the stars in the night.

It did not take a god to know that the tides of the Fates were shifting, that it appeared her godblood was, at long last, calling her to something greater than herself, to something bigger yet to unfold and be revealed. And she was not entirely sure how she felt about it. Not that the ‘feelings’ of mortals were a consideration in such things.

She supposed she had Katarina to thank for that.

Yet just why had the Sinister Blade chosen _her_? She was far from the only demigod to still roam the earth—she and Darius marked two for Noxus alone. So why her? Why would the patron goddess of assassins, of those who lived and died by the shadows, choose a mortal who lived their life by the clear and open vanguard of an army, who lived by the might of her broadsword, not the fine edge of a stiletto blade.

Surely there were other candidates that were more fitted to Katarina’s natural... _inclinations_...than a soldier?

The more she had thought on it, the more the issue continued to nag at her thoughts. There was no readily apparent sense in it, and the anomaly was odd.

A frown tugged at her lips, not for the first time.

It seemed far-fetched but...perhaps...there was one, other possibility. And the more she dwelled on it, the more it seemed like the only reasonable explanation behind Katarina’s actions, and behind her offer.

Riven jerked, nearly knocking the ceramic plate of food from her small table when there was a knock on her door. She stood even as she called out for the servant to enter.

“Thank you for bringing the...”

In an instant, all rational thought fled from her mind.

The woman who entered her chamber carried the jug of wine she had requested, but if she was a servant, then she could make queens look like peasants. She was beautiful...no... _gorgeous_. Skin that looked as though she bathed in lamb’s milk, dark curls of hair that were surely softer than Ionian silk, lips that were…

Riven stared; she could feel that she was staring—inappropriately so—but yet couldn’t find the impetus to turn away. Something began to unfurl deep and low within her gut, a carnal desire abruptly fanned into life.

Riven started a second time, realizing that that woman had spoken, and the words had fallen on deaf ears.

“You _are_ Riven, aren’t you?”

The woman’s red, red lips curled upward in a knowing smirk as she repeated the question, and Riven felt her cheeks heat even as she stuttered out a wide-eyed answer, as though she were but a shy and self-conscious young maiden again.

“I...yes! Thank you for bringing the wine!” She fumbled and nearly dropped the jug in her haste to take it from servant and move it out of the way and onto the table. “H-how can I help you?”

It did not even occur to her how absurd it must sound for a guest to offer aid to a servant of all people.

The woman, unfazed, gave a politely patient smile, though there was something almost achingly familiar about it. “That remains to be seen. So kind of you to offer yourself up though…”

She emphasized the word “kind”, and Riven felt her knees weaken with the sudden desire to do anything, _everything_ in her power for this woman. If only she knew what was the best course of action, what was wanted of her.

“They were right.” The woman began to walk closer, taking as much time with her steps as with her words, slow and deliberate, her eyes grazing over Riven from head to toe with a lazy but intense kind of scrutiny. “Shock of white hair, eyes as red as blood…”

This close, the air easily wafted the scent of her perfume to Riven’s nose, honeyed cloves, heady and strong. One hand wrapped around her waist, while another crept up against the back of her neck. Perfectly lacquered nails scraped lightly across her, and Riven had to suck in a breath, chills breaking out and shivering across her too hot skin.

Somewhere, something in her blood screamed in warning. About danger. Or...something. It was hard to recall just what. Surely it could wait.

Everything could wait for this vision of beauty before her.

Riven was suddenly and discomfitingly aware of how the seam of her leather breeches pressed hotly in between her thighs, how even the slightest of fidgeting only made it worse. She swallowed, mouth drier than the deserts of Shurima, as her gaze inadvertently dropped to expanse of alabaster skin that the low cut tunic afforded her a view of.

She wanted to...to...

She licked her lips, a second shudder involuntarily running through her.

A soft chuckle rumbled through the woman, and Riven darted her gaze back up to her face.

To her eyes.

Riven couldn’t seem to look away from them. They were such a striking, vibrant green. Or almost...gold? And her pupils were so, so dark, as if reaching out to drag Riven in.

There were separated by mere inches, so, so close.

And yet...

The hands at her neck and waist suddenly tightened, like the coils of a snake around prey. Fingertips prickled into her skin as though claws, about to draw blood.

And Riven, Riven felt her eyes flutter closed, her lips half part and her neck tilt back, concern washed away entirely.

The lights flickered, a dark wind passing over them before they regained their full hue.

“Cassiopeia!”

Katarina’s voice cracked through the air, and Riven reeled, feeling almost as if struck, yet held in place by the sudden iron embrace of the woman—of the _goddess_ —against her.

She blinked rapidly, vision going in and out of focus, acutely aware now of how the woman’s—Cassiopeia’s—nails dug painfully into her skin, as if unwilling to unlatch.

“Why, Kat, dear sister...I did not expect to see you here.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Katarina sounded unusually tense, almost embittered, and her words pushed back at the odd haze from Riven’s mind, the throbbing in her blood now beating not of desire, but of danger against the tide of sedation that would dampen it.

“What are you doing here, Cassiopeia.” Katarina’s words came out as a command, not a question, and when her gaze momentarily caught Riven’s, Riven felt a fell chill run like ice through her veins.

She tried to take a half step away, but Cassiopeia’s grip was suddenly adamantine, the threat of violence abruptly humming in the air.

The goddess’s voice was all sickly sweet and uncaring as she addressed her sister. “And what do you care of a mere mortal, even if she is half-blooded? So fun to play with, to string along…” Her nails dug gouges into Riven’s skin, and she had to bite down on her lip. “...to break.”

Katarina’s lips twisted, her visage now fearfully dark, ugly with fury and somewhat else that glittered in her eyes. She spat one, forceful word.

“Leave.”

Cassiopeia frowned, her full lips sticking out in a way that a part of Riven still ached to ease, though she daren’t move.

“Always so sour, Kat. You weren’t always like this with me.” Her voice melted back from a pout to a sweet but sinister lullabye. “It doesn’t have to be like this, you know. If you’d just give me a chance to—”

“ _Leave._ Now.”

There was silence, poundingly loud and more lethal than a bared blade, tension palpable.

Then Riven was stumbling as Cassiopeia released her, her absence striking a chord of intense and severe longing that nearly brought her to her knees.

“ _Fine_. Be that way. I’ll leave you and your...toy.”

Riven blinked, and then she and Katarina were alone, no sign that anyone else had been present but for the lingering scent of honeyed cloves leftover in the air.

With the other goddess...with Cassiopeia gone now, with only Katarina remaining, Riven felt as though her mind were coming out of a fog, as if from a deep, unsettling sleep. Her actions abruptly began to replay themselves over in her mind’s eye, disturbing in how quickly control had fled from her. How in a matter of seconds she had lost any semblance of dignity and logic. She took one shaky step, using the heel of her palm to wipe the sweat from her forehead, sweat she had not even realized had been called into existence until now.

“That was…” She swallowed heavily, wetting her dry lips. “Cassiopeia. Goddess of seduction and…”

Katarina’s eyes caught and held hers for a moment, and Riven daren’t continue. Not out loud.

 _Goddess of betrayal._ And Katarina’s sister.

“Why...why was she here?”

“Because she enjoys meddling in affairs in which she has no place. And in taking things to which she has no right.”

_Taking? What..._

“You mean she wanted to _take_ me—”

“You are not hers to take!” snapped Katarina, and her voice was liquid fury, cutting and hot, though Riven could see now that it was not directed at her.

Agitated, the goddess stopped pacing for a moment to instead busy herself with the paltry helping of dinner and wine that was on the small table in Riven’s room. Her fingers ghosted over the bread, the cheese, the bit of curried lamb meat, and the small jug of wine.

Riven studied Katarina as she worked to calm herself, curious. Never had she witnessed the goddess so clearly upset, thrown from her usual control and calm.

And it begged, now more than ever, the question of _why_.

They had an agreement, yes, a vassalage. But it went beyond that. The annals of history spoke of the many accords made between mortals and celestials—it was the nature of gods to not covet dearly those souls which would ultimately end in Karthus’ dread hands.

Yet but for a few select cases.

When there was more reason than simple coincidence of encounter to link the divine to demigod.

Well...and Katarina _had_ said that she could reveal all to Riven, that she knew the truth, the one mystery that had chased Riven for her entire life thus far...

It was a gamble worthy enough of the Twisted Fate himself, and Riven decided to push her luck.

“Katarina...that is…” Riven took a deep breath, risking everything.  She was fairly certain now, though.  After all, what other reason could such a goddess have to take interest in a demigod such as herself? “...mother.”

If there was any doubt as to whether gods could be surprised and caught off guard, this answered it.

The goddess of assassins, who had haphazardly busied herself with sipping and tasting the fresh jug of wine on the table—finally seeming to have calmed herself—choked and wheezed.  The clay decanter was half dropped and half thrown from her hands, pottery shattering on the floor and spilling red everywhere.

“I... _what did you call me_?” It came out as an entirely unbecoming shriek, bringing beads of sweat to Riven’s skin. 

But then, what god did like to have their personal affairs unveiled for them?

“I…” Katarina sucked in a sharp breath of air, still clearly trying to regain her normal composure. “You think...that I— _I_ , Katarina, master of assassins, daughter of the Heavens, am _your mother_?”

The words hung in heavy in the air, sounded as ludicrous as Katarina had made them.  Goddess of violent necessity and compulsion...having a half mortal child?

Riven struggled for words, a trickle of sweat running down her neck.  Never so much as now was she aware of her own mortality, and the lack thereof of the being standing before her. The goddess’s gaze was bright, too bright and too hard to discern if it was outraged amusement that roiled beneath the surface, or wrath.

Words needed to be chosen and presented carefully, no different than an offering of meat and fat on the altar.

“I could not think of why a goddess, particularly one so accomplished as yourself, would take interest in me.  What reason would a goddess have to take in a demigod of unknown heritage as myself, unless I was yours?”

Or unless she had a vested interest in Riven’s death, according to the lives of most prior demigods.  But if Katarina was truly interested in committing Riven to the Underworld, why not be done with it from the very first time she appeared to her?  The gods were fickle, yes, but not so fickle as to hide their anger and displeasure toward the unfortunate mortals who garnered it.

What reason did the goddess have to come to her otherwise?

Katarina’s lips twisted at the logic that Riven had presented, both spoken and unspoken.

She took a step forward, shadows coiling around her in the same way that her locks of hair moved like cold flame.  Riven stepped back before she could think, instinct and wary caution moving her feet.

“So you think that there is no other possible reason that I could take interest in you for this task at hand?” Another step, and another. “Absolutely none that cross your mind beside...’motherly’ urges?”

And then the wall was at Riven’s back, preventing any further retreat, but the Sinister Blade was on her, leaving no room for escape.

“Um…”

What was she supposed to say?

A hand slammed down on either side of her head, fully trapping her in place.  Katarina hummed, a pensive note that hung in the air.  Riven’s heart thudded loudly in her chest and ears alike, and somehow the thought of fighting back whispered away into the night like the smoke of an extinguished candle.

No dagger between the ribs was forthcoming, though.  Rather, Katarina slowly ducked her head down, chasing the curve of muscle that connected Riven’s shoulder and neck.

There was a deep sigh, and then her carmine lips whispered up the bare exposed side of Riven’s throat, trailing molten heat wherever they touched.  Riven stood still, pressed against the wall as if turned to stone, her mind a confused jitter of incoherency.

Katarina leaned in toward one ear, and Riven was acutely aware of how the goddess was pushed up against her, firm and supple and glowing, unblemished skin that men and women alike would die for.

“So tell me.” Katarina paused in her soft words to bite down on the shell of Riven’s ear, pricking just hard enough to evoke a dangerous balance between pleasure and pain. “Riven.”

Then she stepped back, and the absence of her, sharper than a dagger’s thrust, left Riven reeling.

“Do you still think of me as a mother?”

The words were cruel and mocking, and Riven had to suck in a breath of air to regain some sense of self.  The hand at her side opened and closed once, twice, but the hilt of her blade was not at her side with it’s quiet, iron reassurance.  So she settled with running said hand through her tangled mess of hair, swallowing before daring to answer.

“No.”

Her answer came out far more steady and sure than what she felt, and it seemed to please the deity.

Katarina smiled, looking like one of the kitchen cats with a fresh bowl of goat’s milk, her green eyes blazing. “Good.  I’ll be in touch...Riven.”

And then she was suddenly gone, vanished before Riven could so much as blink, leaving behind only the confusion of hot and insistent need in Riven’s blood as memento.

 

* * *

 

The waves of the Guardian Sea looked just the same as Riven last remembered them. Blue and unending, but for the distant island of Ionia that she knew lay beyond the sun-brightened horizon.

She had hoped that the return boat back to Noxus, that somber and quiet retreat from the failed campaign, would be the last she would ever see or hear of the sea and of Ionia alike.

She should have known that the gods and Fates alike appreciated irony far too much for that.

Now that she was at the sea, though, she needed to find passage across the straits.

Which could require some resourcefulness.

Only a few years prior, before and during the failed campaigns, it was easy enough to find passage both to and from the the mainland and island. War was good for the merchants of death, and there were plenty willing to take mercenaries, refugees, and arms dealers alike as Noxus had pressed deep into the center of Ionia.

That had changed in the time since Noxus withdrew.

Word was that in the time since successfully repelling the Noxian invasion, the once shining state of Ionia had fractured into civil war, different sides of elders, soldiers, and survivors of the Noxian invasion vetted against one another as to how the broken country should regain their standing.

Riven had heard little news of the isolated island. Noxus had been more involved in other, more profitable campaigns to bother evaluating Ionia a second time. The embargo that had been put in place against the Ionians had remained even since the recall of Noxian soldiers, and there was little appetite from merchants to involve themselves in trading amidst the ongoings of a civil war; most would wait until a clear victor united both the island and the finances, and then pit their fortunes there.

Which meant that there were few enough willing to venture fully across the straits.

And those that were willing...well...they were not precisely _reputable_.

“I’m looking for passage to Ionia.”

“Passage _to_ Ionia?” The seadog’s eyebrows rose, questioning. Riven didn’t even know what his proper name was, if he even had one. A day of questioning and flashing some coin at the docks had finally led her to this stinking, raucous, and filthy excuse for a bar, dominated by men and women who all looked as unsavory as the man she now sat across from. Of course, _this_ particular man could supposedly get her what she wanted. Supposedly.

“Now there’s something I wasn’t fully expecting. We still get the occasional refugees looking to get off that damned island, but not many looking to go back.” He squinted at Riven, at her Noxian-made military greatsword, her soldier’s garb.

“You don’t _look_ Ionian. Mighty strange to be headin’ that way.”

Riven stared at him, unblinking. “I have a debt to settle.”

It was not an untrue statement; she let him mull over the implications for himself.

He stroked his patchy and haphazard beard, clearly thinking.

“Not exactly the most profitable run for me to be takin’, you understand.”

“As if you can’t find people willing or desperate enough to buy your exorbitantly priced goods and weapons over there.”

He grinned back at her less-than-subtle accusation, revealing a mouth that was a patchwork of missing teeth.

“True, true. Still, business hasn’t been the same since your High Command pulled out but kept the embargo going, and the Ionians _are_ less inclined than others I’ve seen to outsource for their bloody civil war. Makes running under the market a hard time here.”

Riven rolled her eyes. “Get on with it then. What do you want?”

He didn’t even bat an eyelash upon naming the outrageous sum of money.

She mulled it over, refusing to blink or look away, until the man finally began to fidget and grow unnerved under her gaze. Then she spoke.

“You’re one of Gangplank’s men. Two gold for dropping me off in Ionia—which is on your route anyway—along with my assurance as an army _captain_ that I will forget entirely knowing anything about about what routes your men may or may not be taking to supply enemies of Noxus. Like Demacia. What say you?”

The sour and angry twisting of his lips spoke enough of what he thought of the lightly veiled threat, but even so, he reached out with one calloused and dirtied hand across the table.

“Aye. We have a deal.”

 

* * *

 

The boat was a small skimmer, designed for relatively light cargo and fast pace across the white foam of the seas.

It was a typical smuggler’s ship.

What black market goods were loaded below deck, Riven was better off not knowing, which seemed to suit both her and the smuggler crew perfectly well.

The soon they both parted ways, the better.

Ionia wasn’t a far journey either, just three to four days sailing from the small port they had left Noxus from. And Yasuo’s wind was kind to them. For the first two days, the sun beamed brightly overhead  and there was hardly a cloud to be seen. The ocean was calm but the wind was at their back, speeding the small vessel across the sparkling blue waters.

And then the winds changed.

On the afternoon of the third day, when they were but mere hours from the coast of Ionia, the sun disappeared. The skies grew dark and angry, and all too soon waves began to roil and churn beneath the shallow hull of the boat, rocking them violently.

“Storm!” yelled the first mate. As if it weren’t already apparent.

In neither crossing of the straits on the great Noxian transports had Riven been caught in storm such as this, though. It was as if the full fury of Janna’s wrath had erupted over them. Rain began to pour down in vicious, biting droves, and the swells began to rise to dangerous heights.

The captain of their vessel was roaring commands, but they were lost in the boom of thunder from above, in the screaming of the wind in her ears.

“— _hold_ —”

Riven saw that all of the sailors were clinging onto the ropes a moment too late, and then the wave hit. She felt the horrifying moment of being tossed from the deck, of freefalling through the air. She caught a glimpse of the wide-eyed terror of a sailor as he watched her go, too far to even think of helping.

And then she was plunged into the sea, sucked into the dark and endless abyss.


	5. Song of Glories - Ch. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riven reaches Ionia, and must seek the way going forward from the Starchild, Oracle of the Heavens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to those of you who commented last chapter. You have no idea how much it makes me smile and keep me motivated to write. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as prior ones :)
> 
> As usual, any comments, criticisms, or questions are always appreciated.

For the second time in nearly a fortnight, Riven awoke half covered in sand. She groaned, coughing as she sat upright, tunic crunching from the starchy weight of sand and salt combined. A small crab quickly scuttled away from her, back toward the ever crashing yet receding waves of the endless, grey sea.

Riven blinked, trying to regain her bearings, her last memories.

She had fallen overboard during the storm, into the roiling waters of the Guardian Sea.

But now…

She ran her fingers through the coarse-grained sands.

These grey shores, peppered with flecks of black and white alike, were as familiar to her as the day she had first disembarked from the wide Noxian transport ship onto them.

Somehow, by the grace of the Lord of the Deep, she—and her sword—had reached Ionia.

With nothing but the blade that still lay in the sand beside her and the salt-crusted tunic on her back, she had reached Ionia, though for a very different purpose than war. She had a task at hand, and even now, every second spent laying in the sand merely kept her from fulfilling it.

With a groan, Riven pushed herself up, collected her weapon, and began the steady, long trek into the deep of Ionia.

She travelled carefully across the Ionian countryside, making her way south and west, avoiding the main roads during the height of day when soldiers were most likely to be using them. Food was taken mainly from silent pilfering of what farm houses she came across at night—what ones were still inhabited and not abandoned or burned out from the tell-tale marks of civil war.

Riven took no pleasure in her stealthy approach, in the necessary thievery to kept her stomach filled and strength up while remaining undetected in her solitary journey. Yet she had not a single copper to her name, and daren’t approach any public house for fear of what might happen should her heritage be recognized. The fires of war ever burnt in Ionia, and she could not risk being caught up in them. There was more that she had yet to do.

She could not risk to end her days by some inglorious capture in the hands of an Ionian rebel general eager to make an example of a former Noxian invader.

So Riven avoided all human contact, taking only what food and supplies were needed to keep going, until after days of tireless travel, it emerged on the horizon line.

To call it a mountain would not be true. There were other mountains in Ionia; Riven had seen them years before, great triangular peaks stretching toward the heavens in imitation of Targon itself.

No, this was a pillar, as if carved by the hands of a giant, a great rock that broke the flat of the horizon, mineral and mossy sides more akin to a cliff, and its “peak” a forested plateau that hid divine secrets.

The Oracle’s Rock.

At last.

Beneath the cloudless morning sun, Riven scouted around the base of the rock, but to no avail. The “route” that presumably wound upward to where the oracle lived on the top was covered in impassible boulders, the product of a recent landslide, and no other man made path was apparent.

None but the raw side faces of the great pillar of rock itself.

“There’s only one way left to get up now, and you know it.”

Riven spun around, sword in hand, already in a defensive crouch. Yet she saw nothing.

Just what…?

“Up here, war dog. Not that you’d manage to get a bite out of me anyway.”

Riven turned upward, toward the blinding sun and the figure of a young man, barely more than a boy, floating down to her.

Ezreal, messenger god and occasional trickster. Riven narrowed her gaze, giving only a sharp nod of her head.

“What do you approach me for? Speak what message you have to bear from whatever god has sent you.”

Ezreal looking put out upon by her brusqueness, face adopting a pouting frown. “You know, just because I am the messenger god doesn’t mean I _always_ come bearing a message.”

When Riven chose to simply stare back, he finally gave a long and drawn out sigh, as if severely let down by her.

“Ionia is a far different land than Noxus, and not all of the same gods are so venerated on this island as in your home. The mistress of assassins bears little hold on these lands, little power or reason to stand here, to bring other gods questioning what sudden interest she takes in encroaching on their mortal venerators.”

Ah. That explained it.

Riven nodded slowly, understanding dawning on her as to why she had neither heard nor seen of Katarina since arriving in Ionia...and why she should not expect to.

“That said, I have little care for what my celestial brothers and sisters chose to plot and go on about. Mortals are far more fun for entertainment then the politics of heaven...and you have quite the conundrum facing you.”

Riven’s brow drew down into a dark frown. The last thing she needed was a god boasting and lording over her as she tried to figure the bet way up a pillar of rock.

“Not all of us can fly,” she muttered.

Ezreal laughed, unfazed. “Oh well that’s quite a different matter. I mean something else. What are you going to bring your famed oracle if you finally make it up to the top?”

That made Riven freeze.

He was right; she had nothing to offer, a severe oversight during her penniless adventures across the Ionian countryside to make it this far.

“I…”

“The Oracle’s Rock is known for its wide abundance of goats, you know. Some of the finest on the whole island.”

Ezreal continued to hover over her, knowing. Waiting.

At long last Riven managed a ‘thanks’. She had indeed seen multiple goats already, grazing and doing whatever it was that goats did. All she needed to do now was catch one.

Right?

However, she had been trained to hunt fellow man, not beasts, and the difference quickly became arduous.

The first attempt to simply grab a goat ended in complete misery, her face in the dirt and Ezreal laughing in mirth overhead as she glared at him from below.

She _would_ get one of these hoofed beasts or be damned.

Two more attempts were met with two more failures, but each that much closer to success. Goats were surprisingly agile, wily creatures, Riven decided internally, and far more difficult to handle than battle. At least humans weren’t so...so jumpy.

The fourth goat she spotted was chewing cud quite leisurely along the base of Oracle’s Rock, and Riven approached slowly from behind. Just a bit closer and…

She jumped at the same time as the goat, and they both landed on the earth in rolling mess of dust and flailing limbs. It kicked and butted its head, but Riven held tight. Mud covered the front of her tunic, soiled her hair, and she had no shortage of bruises, but she had at last managed to capture a goat.

Pinning it down, she reached to grab her sword.

“Ah ah ah!”

With a heavy sigh of scarcely concealed irritation, Riven yet again turned to face her audience.

“What now?”

“What kind of deity wants old meat for offering? You think to treat the Starchild any less than a god? Bring her up hours old meat and fat and think it to be ok?”

Riven paused, gritting her teeth. Ezreal was right, curse him, and he knew it. But…

“So I have to get myself _and_ this goat up that?” She gestured with her hand toward the sheer cliff face of Oracle’s Rock.

Ezreal waggled a finger. “No reward without cost!”

Riven didn’t bother to muffle her curses as she struggled with goat, tying its feet together with leather thongs before tossing the creature around her neck, no different than shepherd.

Clearly pleased with whatever entertainment Riven had provided for him, the messenger god gave a quick clap of his hands before waving her on.

“Best of luck, soldier. I hope your hands do not slip!”

Then with a laugh, Ezreal’s gemmed bracers winked with yellow light, and he disappeared from sight, left on whatever other errands or tricks he had in store.

Riven grumbled under her breath, but there was naught to be done. The only way left to her now was up. With a deep breath, she braced herself, checking that her sword was secure to her back and the goat was firmly slung around her shoulders and neck, and began to climb.

The noon sun beat ferociously overhead, bearing witness to what trials she now exerted herself through, careful and arduous grabbing of what juts and ledges decorated the cliff-like face of Oracle’s Rock, moving ever steadily upward.

Only once did Riven dare to pause, to crane her head over the fur of the goat and what progress she had made. The ground had fallen far beneath her, and her stomach lurched and her head spun to think of what might happen should her grip slip, should her strength fail her.

She did not again look back.

Up, up, up, toward the skies and the silent answers they held.

Her lungs burned from the exertion, and her tunic was soaked through in sweat. It dribbled down her brow, off her chin, across her neck. She had been climbing for the better portion of the day, and already the sun was turning a deep, vivid orange and beginning to sink into horizon. And all the while the damned goat still bleated at her ear, quieting only every now and then to lick the salt of sweat from Riven’s arm.

Yet still she climbed, until, at last, her hand reach over the highest and final ledge of Oracle’s Rock.

With a last, muscle-wrenching push, she heaved herself atop the plateau, collapsing into the mossy earth and breathing heavily as she slid the struggling goat from her shoulders

A long shadow suddenly cast over her, and then spoke.

“I’ve been waiting for your arrival, Riven of Noxus.”

The voice was lyrical and airy, yet deeply melodious and pensive, like the low, languid strummings of a harpist drawing the first hints of tune from their craft.

Riven swallowed down another gasping breath, pushing herself upright with her dirtied hands so she could better face the woman who now spoke to her. So she could face the Starchild, oracle to what even the Heavens themselves could not fully discern.

A woman of immeasurable beauty smiled down at her. Her skin was neither pale, marked by strange, runic black inkings down the length of her arms, yet she wore the finest of long silk skirts, a deep blue like the first edging of Nocturne’s twilight, matching her dark tresses of hair that spilled overher shoulders. A circlet of gold winked across her head, drawing attention to the center of her forehead, and a single, curved horn that pushed out from her skin.

Aware that she was staring, Riven hastily averted her gaze back to the oracle’s eyes, only to find they were a liquid, crystalline gold, broken only by rectangular, black pupils.

“I am Soraka, the Starchild and Oracle of the South. And I have been awaiting you.”

Riven swallowed, voice dry and cracked, trying to find her voice. “I…”

There was loud bleating, and then the leather thongs that had held the goat steady and captive all day failed her, knots betraying their duty as the goat wiggled and bounded free from captivity.

Riven did not dare to think twice. She darted desperately, throwing herself forward, only to fall into the loamed earth, fingertips unable to even claw through a hint of the goat’s fur as it escaped her. She scrambled onto all fours, ready for a last chase, but stopped when Soraka began to laugh.

It sounded of glass chimes, pleasing and clear, though with a strange and otherworldly melancholy beneath even the amusement.

Riven froze, watching as Soraka give the goat a gentle pet, as the creature leaned into her touch before happily prancing away.

“I do appreciate you bringing Dag up this way, though he would have managed fine on his own. Still, it is good to see he is doing well.”

Confused, Riven stared, mouth agape. Soraka shifted and as her long skirts moved and hiked up for a brief moment, understanding dawned on Riven. At the edge of the oracle’s skirt poked out not the five-fingered toes of a human foot, but the rough, cloven edge of a furried goat’s hoof, identical to the ones of the goat she had dragged up the mountainside, if larger.

Trickster or no, Riven gave a silent prayer of thanks that Ezreal had convinced her to _not_ slaughter the goat and then carry meat up...and then in the next thought still cursed him for convincing her of the entire trouble.

Still, the Starchild’s small chuckle of amusement was not a bad thing.

“Come.”

Riven rose and followed Soraka into the trees, into a small, grove-like clearing. Several candles were lit to make up for the quickly dying daylight, hung from the the branches of tree limbs and placed on the single, roughly hewn stone table that dominated the clearing. Soraka took a seat on one of the stone stumps that seemed to serve as a makeshift stool, and after she gestured to the one across from her, Riven followed suit.

“So, you reach my residence at last, Riven of Noxus.”

“You...you knew I was coming.” Considering that Soraka was a divine oracle, Riven did not know why she was surprised.

“One of many things I know. I knew you were coming, that a storm would visit you in your passage across the seas. The stars see many things, such as the touch of your godly parent on you, and whose desires mixed to give you life.”

Riven started at the implication.

“You know who my father and mother are?”

Soraka nodded. “It is written across your skin, like a book opened to a scholar. I can easily discern that much.”

“You could...tell me who my parents were?” Her voice came out a strangled stutter, caught in her throat, unexpected.

Soraka’s eyes met hers, bright and burnished as the stars themselves, and she smiled softly, sadly, even as she shook her head.

“I could...but I won’t. I am not meant to be the one to deliver those words to you.”

Riven nodded slowly, feeling no where near as disappointed as what she had expected. The Starchild reached out, and her hand was warm upon Riven’s shoulder, quiet reassurance.

“You will know soon enough. For that is, in part, why you have come here, is it not? The mark of the Lady of Assassins is on you, god-born.”

“I…” Riven paused for a moment, bowing her head in deference. It was not hard to. Unlike mortal priests, she acutely felt as though she were in the presence of something...more than human, though it was unsettling. “Yes. I was told you could give me answers. Direction.”

Soraka smiled at this, small and secretive, and the skin pulled and crinkled at the corners of her eyes. She turned her head away, looking up over the trees and toward something, or somewhere, that Riven could not see.

“Answers. Directions. You may find that they are not one in the same, or that the answers you desire are not those which you receive. Once, many visited me, seeking what words of wisdom the stars might grant them. Now, those rare few who venture up to me bring only harsh words and weapons and the scent of blood. They seek not my wisdom, but a guarantee that the wings of Victory side with them...a promise that none but the Fates themselves can dare offer.” Soraka’s gaze grew misty and distant, sadness tinging her words. “They see only war and power now, and the once clear rivers of this land run red with blood of brothers turned against brothers.”

Riven shifted for a moment, unsure if there was reprimand directed at her in the words.

“Red,” continued Soraka, and her voice was both warm and knowing as she turned back to face Riven. “Red like your eyes, red like the blood that runs through your veins, that you have spilled from the countless men and women you have felled. Your story is written over the your body, in the whisper of your mortal breath.”

She took one of Riven’s dirtied palms in both of her hands, her fingers running delicately over the callouses and scars, the valleys and wrinkles and lines of her skin, as if following some unspoken map. Her eyes looked almost through Riven now, as if seeing something beyond.

“You must be brave, Riven. Yours is a path ever moving forward, ever snaking with change. Do not dwell on the past, for it will give you none of the peace that you secretly crave. You will walk a long road. Drink deeply from what rich pleasures it offers you, for they will be limited, but do not lose sight of who you are.”

Riven shivered, waiting, but nothing else was forthcoming, and she realized that Soraka would not reveal any specifics to her, if she even knew them.

“I...thank you,” she managed, hand dropping back to her side as Soraka released it.

“Now then...you have not come this way without reason. What knowledge of the stars is it that you seek?”

This time, her voice came stronger, more sure. “I come seeking the way to dread Pantheon, the lord of gods now absent, that your counsel with the heavens might tell me the path to find him.”

Soraka hummed, pensive, and it was only then that Riven recalled herself, and the loss of the goat she had brought with intention as payment. Panicked mortification struck her. The priests had always spoke of making the appropriate offerings to an oracle or prophet so as to appease both the fortune teller and whatever divine power had so granted them the ability of foresight.

She _had_ come prepared, but the offering of flesh and blood had been cast aside. ‘Freed’. And Riven had naught else to offer but the clothes on her back and the iron sword at her side. She had no coin of worth, no fresh meat or grain, no rare spices or incense to gift for the answers she seeked.

Somewhat of her internal conflict must have shown on her face, for Soraka reached out again. One pale hand played over Riven’s sternum, fingers pressed flat against cheap fabric and sun-kissed skin, and as Riven breathed in and out she could feel the warmth from Soraka’s firm touch, the low hum that echoed from her throat.

“You have a pure heart, Riven of Noxus, for all that you are carven from battle. That is enough, but pray do not forget yourself in the days to come. Now let me consult the stars.”

Then she stood and began walking deeper into the enclave, silken skirts just barely whispering with her movements, and Riven was forced to scramble to her feet to follow.

It took but a minute of winding through the narrow tree trail, and then they emerged into a different, far larger clearing. Dirt gave way to heavy, granite blocks imbedded in the ground, carven sigils that formed a great tantric circle in the earth, open to the nighttime heavens above, to the stars that now painted the sky.

Soraka glided to the center of the circle, and Riven watched as she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Waiting.

When Soraka at last opened her eyes, she waved one hand toward Riven, a small, apologetic smile gracing her.

“I am afraid this may take some time tonight to commune with my brethren. Please, go back to the enclave and make yourself at ease. Partake in what food is there, and I will return to you when I have divined what knowledge you seek.

She felt helpless, uncertain, yet there was naught else for Riven to do, so she bowed her head, turning away and daring to glance back, uncertainly, only once.

Soraka stood in the center of the circle, unmoving. Her hands were outstretched, palms up, and her head tilted back so that her horn pointed to the skies. She stared at the swathe of bright stars above them, and her eyes glowed white, as if turned into stars themselves.

Riven swallowed and ducked back down the tree-canopied path, lest she disturb whatever meditative trance Soraka had entered.

At the enclave, a further multitude of small, glowing candles had been lit, and a large palm leaf was now splayed across the stone table. Atop the bright green was laid out a simple but plentiful offering of food. Fresh, crumbling goat cheese, a jar of goat’s milk with a honeycomb floating on top, and a helping of small, dense honey cakes, still hot and steaming from the oven...or wherever they had been cooked.

Riven glanced around, but the grove gave no further hints as to whom had brought the food out, or where it had come from.

After it was clear that answers were unlikely to be forthcoming, she shrugged and began eating.

The milk was rich, far richer than she had ever tasted before, and the cheese was heady and filling. The first bite of honey cake was a burst of flavor across her tongue, an explosion of floral sweetness over the soft and crumbly cake. Riven had thought herself hungry, and yet found her appetite sated after only a half serving of milk, a handful of cheese, and two of the small cakes.

She sighed, blinking slowly against the steady chirping of crickets.

Stomach surprisingly full, stars twinkling across the night sky, the exhaustion of the day suddenly pulled down at her eyelids with an impossibly leaden weight. She should stay up, wait for word from the Starchild. Yet the moss covered ground seemed so soft and inviting, and she was so, so tired. Surely a small nap could not hurt.

Riven awoke from a deep, restful sleep, stretching slowly and with little urgency.

“I am glad you have found some measure of peace here, small though it is.”

Riven yawned, pushing herself upright to find Soraka sitting nearby, watching her with those gentle, sad eyes.

“How long…?” She looked toward the sky, still feeling oddly at ease with the fact that she had fallen asleep in the grove rather than keeping her vigil.

“Dawn will rise in but an hour or so.”

She rubbed the last of the sleep from her eyes, a vague sense of familiar urgency finally returning to her. “And...did you get answers? Did the stars…?”

Soraka hummed, low and lulling, and Riven almost, _almost_ let her eyelids begin to droop again. At least until Soraka spoke.

“The stars see much, more than even the gods—begrudging though the lords of heaven are to admit such. But they do not see all.” Her voice grew distant, as if coming from far away, and her eyes began to glow with an inner light. “Where dread Pantheon is now, they cannot see, under shadow darker than the light that the stars may pierce.”

She should her head, curls of hair bouncing gently, and the light faded from her eyes.

“I cannot say where you must go to find him.”

The first risings of panic swelled from Riven’s stomach into her throat. “But...you said! I _can’t_ leave without—”

Soraka shushed her gently, one hand reached out to cup Riven’s cheek. Her protests silenced themselves instinctively, though not from fear. She waited, kneeling, leaning into the soft, soft touch of Soraka’s palm, suddenly patient for whatever would come next. Her eyes closed again, though not from desire for sleep. She suddenly wished—how a tired, aching part of her wished—that she could stay in this strange grove, separate from the chaos and hardness of the world. And yet she knew, too, it could not be so.

Red and green alike flashed in her mind’s eye, Katarina pressed up against her, the smell of cloves in her nostrils, the flush of wine heady on her tongue, the touch of smirking lips, red as blood, hot against her neck. She shivered.

Soraka spoke, and she knew that there was more for her to yet do.

“There is one who can tell you what you seek. In life upon Zyra’s green earth, he dedicated himself to eternal pursuit of the arcane knowledge, both sacred and forbidden. What dark secrets are written on his scrolls of the past and future, not even the heavens can guess. You seek answers, Riven the Wanderer. Ryze may give them to you.”

She opened her eyes, staring up at Soraka and her bright gaze, stomach clenching at the proclamation she knew was to come, for the prophet Ryze had lived centuries before her birth, and had long since passed into cold Karthus’ embrace.

“Journey into the underworld. Seek Ryze, the Arcane Master, and he will tell you the way you must take.”

 

* * *

  

As the sky began to lighten with the coming of dawn, Riven made her way down Oracle’s Rock, following the shaded path that winded down the top half of the rock until finally reverting to climbing down the steep cliff-like face. The further she traveled from the grove, the more the temporary peace the enclave seemed to have afforded her dissipated, and she was left with a growing, gnawing anxiety in her chest that would not ease.

Only once her feet touched the solid earth again was this apprehension given form, for Riven was no longer alone.

A woman waited for her.

She had long, dark hair, billowing out in waves behind her from the wind, and eyes that were a fiery and piercing green, blazing with liquid rage even now.

Blazing with the same lethal and unrelenting fury Riven remembered from those years before.

Even without the distinctive red-lacquered armor, Riven recognized Irelia, The Will of the Blades.

It had been Irelia, mightiest of the Ionian warriors, half-blooded demigod like Riven, who had stemmed the tide of the Noxian invasion—who had turned it entirely—with her stand at Placidium. The mighty gates of the great Ionian capital had not fallen that day, and though Riven had not been at the vanguard, she recalled clearly the lone figure that stood amidst the sea of carnage.

Her fair anger had been beautiful and deadly, and was amplified by physical proximity.

What was different now was her weapon. Four swords, gleaming silver in the new sun, the same as Riven remembered, yet no hand commanded them now.

They floated, whirling around Irelia silently, an intricate dance by invisible forces.

_That_ was something new. And unsettling.

Just what power had been given to Irelia to grant her blades their own life?

“Will of the Bla-”

“Assassin’s whore,” Irelia’s words dripped colder than ice, filled with venom.

Whatever Riven had been expecting, it was not that. For a moment, she gaped, caught entirely off guard. There was no mistaking just _who_ Irelia spoke of, and now seeing that Irelia stood alone to confront her, hearing what knowledge Irelia spoke of but _should not possess_ , Riven knew with dread certainty that no mortal power had brought them to this meet.

Riven narrowed her gaze, grip shifting and tightening on her the hilt of her meager greatsword.

Words might be but a waste of breath now, for she knew Irelia desired that nothing pass between the two of them but blood. But still, by whose workings...

The Owl’s insignia, purple amethyst gems winking against the polished silver of the medallion that rested on Irelia’s breast.

“Syndra…” she whispered, pieces suddenly falling together in her mind. Goddess of the Occult, Sovereign Mistress of Magical Power.

The blades suddenly swirled around Irelia, barely restrained violence practically throbbing in morning air, and Riven nearly took a half step back.

“How _dare_ you utter her name, Noxian filth! How dare you step on these lands again, salt this sacred ground with your presence, and dare to interfere in the mistress’s search, and all for the sake of that snake sister’s shadow plans! You have chosen poorly indeed.”

Irelia took one step forward, and Riven held up her spare hand, trying to placate. “Wait! Irelia, what do you mean? I’m not trying hinder anyone! You’re looking for Pantheon too, right? We don’t need to fight, if Syndra and Katarina are just both trying to—”

“Do not dare speak their names in the same breath! I will not listen to the lies that Noxus and its shadow patrons spew! My strength will prevail, and you will end here.”

Irelia dashed forward, and Riven was forced to bring the heft of her greatsword up, lest she be impaled by four whirling swords at once. There would be no reason between them.

From the first clash of their blades, Riven knew she could not win.

It was not a matter of strength; even now, she was certain her blood lended her more raw physical power than what Irelia could muster. No, it was the fortitude of her weapon that would fail her. Her standard issue greatsword she had scavenged from the meager armory in Aridae would not hold against the elegant and high quality steel of the Will of the Blades, and already she could feel the cheaply refined metal buckle beneath the growing whirlwind that was the force of Irelia’s blows.

She had seen first hand, when the fields before Placidium ran red from both Ionian and Noxians alike, how Irelia used her blades like a twisted art, as if painting with blood. It was a memory that all those who survived held with them. The mightiest of demigods Ionia had to offer, holding off and then forcing the Noxian war machine into retreat, her swords like an extension of herself. Now, enhanced by the occult power of Syndra, Mistress of Magic, they truly were just that. Extensions of Irelia. Four blades against one.

Riven was forced to take a step back from the furious onslaught. Then another step, and another. She had neither room nor time to counterattack, only to frantically parry, dodge, and parry again, arms already aching for the flurried effort.

All four blades snapped forward, and Riven caught them against the crossbar of her sword, holding steady, straining, straining.

Then, metal gave way, and with a screech, the great bar of steel that was her greatsword broke, hewn into hilt and blade.

Irelia’s eyes sparked in vicious, victorious delight, and Riven barely dove aside to miss a killing blow.

Now weaponless, against four supernatural blades of magic wielded by a bloodthirsty demigod, Riven had not even a fool’s hope of winning. Soraka had spoke of going to the underworld, but Riven had no intention to do it this way. She needed to escape. Now.

Hearing Irelia come up on her, Riven whirled, hurling as much of the earth as her fingers could grab at her foe.

The toss landed squarely into Irelia’s face, dirt and and sand lobbing into her eyes even as she yelled and her blades swerved wildly, chaotically. Now was the only chance. With an agility fueled of desperation, she grabbed and threw the still weighty remains of her sword at Irelia, knocking her back to the ground. Then, with no shame, Riven fled toward the nearby forests as though the very hounds of Fear and Panic nipped at her heels.

It did not take long to for Irelia to recover.

“Fight me, coward! Turn and fight!”

Irelia’s screams of fury echoed out behind her, chasing, but Riven daren’t turn. She ran. She ran deep into the trees over twisted roots and treacherous boulders, even long after she had left Oracle’s Rock and Irelia behind. She ran until her legs gave way, and she could move no more.


End file.
